


Take My Soul Away

by Airwing



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Assertive Friendship, Blood and Injury, Childhood Trauma, Explicit Language, Friendship, Gen, Hero-complex, Knives, Medical Help, Mental Anguish, Mental Help, Non-Canonical Violence, Non-suicidal, Parent in Denial, Self Confidence Issues, Self Harm, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Self-Mutilation, Therapy, minor character death (pre-story), triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5022079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airwing/pseuds/Airwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck Hansen does not accept failure and makes sure to accept the consequences. Can a new friend help him come to terms with a better way to cope? <strong>***** This story deals with non-suicidal self-harm, including graphic descriptions of blood and injury, mental anguish, childhood trauma, and amateur medical procedures. If you are squeamish or may be triggered by these subjects, kindly pass up this story as it will not be a pleasant read for you. *****</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Take My Soul Away

**Author's Note:**

> _Author’s Notes: I have been having a very emotionally screwed up time for a while and it has made it very hard to write. This is definitely one of my darker pieces and it seems like every fandom I have I have written one of these so it was only a matter of time before Pacific Rim made its way into my darkness. I was inspired by the song “Gods and Monsters” by Lana Del Ray (and the cover by We Are Temporary, which is pretty haunting) even though the title may not be explicitly relevent and so yeah, here we go._  
>  ******* If you have triggers be warned, this is pretty triggery if you got issues with such things. (Depression, talk of suicide, self harm, etc.) *******  
> 

**Post Double-Event**  
  
Chuck nodded to Raleigh as an act of gratitude, their eyes meeting despite the crowd congratulating the pilots of Gipsy Danger. Chuck had to admit that while he was indeed thankful for the backup and the destruction of two Cat-4 kaiju, he was still feeling pangs of jealousy. It should have been he and his father who took them down. 

Striker Eureka was the strongest, most advanced jaeger ever created. The only Mark-5, it had taken down a record number of kaiju and to be disabled by something so stupid as an electromagnetic flux was embarrassing. The two pilots were lucky they hadn’t been killed and that their jaeger wasn't destroyed. Gipsy Danger had made sure of that.

Giving a quick glance at his father, Chuck slipped away from the celebrating crowd. It wasn’t just their failure to defeat the kaiju that was bothering him. It was something else. It was the feelings he felt inside of himself, nagging him to do something.

An employee scurried down the hall, muttering something about being happy Chuck and his father were safe, to which the redhead merely feigned a smile and waved the man off. He didn’t feel like interacting with anyone right then. He reached his room, opened the door and stepped inside. 

Chuck’s dorm was slightly larger than most employee rooms. Pilots were given better amenities, at least what could be considered amenities: a personal bathroom, mini-fridge, wall-mounted TV, higher quality bed, and more closet space. It wasn’t a huge upgrade but it was better than nothing.

The Australian tossed his bomber jacket toward the bed. It landed face down, the emblems of kaiju killed staring up at him on the leather, taunting him. 

You failed, Hansen. You fucked up. There should have been two more patches, instead we just stood there like some dumb shits. And those pilots. Cherno Alpha was around six years and I let them die because we followed orders. Because I wasn’t man enough to say fuck you to Pentecost and go back them up. Too late for Typhoon by then but we could’a helped Cherno if we went after their first call. I liked those two. Like me, take no shit, hardasses. They didn’t deserve to die like that. Fuck you, Hansen, he chastised himself. Lost two of the best pilots in the world because you had no balls.

If there was one thing Chuck had no tolerance for it was failure, and despite the fact it was not his nor his father’s fault that the kaiju had adapted to have weapons catered to the individual jaegers’ weaknesses, it was still a failure in his eyes. There was only one thing he could do about a failure. No one else could punish him, but he could punish himself. 

Chuck opened the nightstand drawer, revealing amongst other things, a combat knife. He took it out, still in its sheath, and rustled around in the drawer until he found some gauze and medical tape. He gathered the items together and headed to the bathroom. 

He set the items on the sink, reaching over with one hand to flip on the light. He stared at himself in the mirror, a look of disappointment in his eyes. The longer he looked at his reflection, the angrier he became, wanting to lash out in frustration. That wasn’t his style, however. Punching mirrors, screaming to the top of his lungs, throwing things,one of those suited him. They were too outlandish. He needed something calmer, yet equally as effective. 

The young pilot shucked off his shirt, not wanting to soil it. He stared at his left arm a moment, at the several faint scars beneath the red hairs. Those were for the minor infractions, he felt. A little pain, but nothing he couldn’t handle. As he had done before, he counted them, just to make himself feel more stoic about his intended activity. Four scars, each about four inches wide, no more than a centimeter apart from each other. 

He turned his wrist until his palm was facing up. There was only one scar across the flesh of his wrist. It was for his mother, for being the reason she died. It was his fault his father chose to save him instead of her. He had no proof, but it was his truth. That particular scar was deep, a wound he had inflicted back when he was only fifteen. He and his father had been fighting as usual and Herc had brought up Chuck’s dead mother. He blamed it on the kaiju but Chuck blamed himself. His father hadn’t brought her up as a weapon against his son. In fact all Herc had said was that he missed her more than anything when their argument was at its apex. Later that night, in the privacy of his bathroom, Chuck had taken the combat knife his Uncle Scott had given him, and slowly dragged the blade across his upturned wrist as he held back tears that didn’t come from the pain of the cut, but rather the pain of loss and anger. 

The blood had flowed more quickly than he had expected and Chuck had collapsed to the floor, already feeling light-headed and weak. His father had heard the commotion andrun to the bathroom door, demanding to know what was going on. Seconds later, Herc had kicked the door in and discovered his son on the floor, bloody and shaking.

That was the only wound his father knew about. Chuck claimed it was an accident, a foolish mishandling of a knife while trying to clean it. Chuck suspected that his dad had merely pretended to believe it in hopes it was over, that it was a single occurrence. Chuck had doubts that the hospital believed his story based on the looks the nurses and doctors had given them, but nothing was ever said aloud. Never mind the fact that one does not clean a combat knife with tap water nor hold it in a position that could slice a gash across a wrist.

It was the last time Chuck had cut in that spot. He had been more careful since then. He needed the pain of the punishment, not the attention that came with sloppy self-mutilation, and certainly not death. He never wanted to die; he only wanted to pay for his failures. 

Chuck held his arm over the sink, picking up the knife with his right hand. He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment more, feeling nothing but pure disappointment in himself. It was just enough to give him the courage to commit the act. The blade pressed down, parting the skin. It was a small cut, no wider than his wrist, dragging across the vein. Blood instantly began to flow. He had only done this once before, but he felt in control despite the oozing liquid. The cuts on his arm didn’t bleed much compared to this. No, this was just like he remembered it, except as a kid he had been afraid. Not now. Now he was calm, in control. There was no way this would end up like it did before. 

He made a fist and angled his wrist inward, putting pressure on the thick vein, slowing the flow of blood out of the wound. He held it under the cold water from the tap, further encouraging a clot. After a moment, he eased up the pressure, and then quickly laid a strip of medical tape across it, a crude way to seal up the parted flesh before it began to drip again. He placed several other strips to hold it in place, and then wrapped gauze around it, tightly, until he was sure that no excess blood would seep through and be noticed as well as keep the pressure on, holding in the blood. So far, nobody had ever said anything about his seemingly random ‘accidents’ that always managed to affect only his left arm, but if he wasn’t careful someone might notice this time. The cut may not have been as deep as he expected, but it still bled like crazy and he could tell the makeshift bandage wouldn’t last but for so long. He would have to figure something else out later.

As he always was after a punishment session, he felt dizzy. Usually it was a mix of coming down from his ‘high’ of self-harm, and partially it was from losing some blood. Normally, it wasn’t a substantial amount, but this time it had been quite a bit more and he was already feeling the shakes. He stumbled to the table, and sat in the chair nearest to the mini-fridge. He reached back with his right arm and opened it, fishing out a bottle of orange juice. He began to chug the liquid that would help to replenish the lost blood, drinking away the thought that just maybe he had gone a little too far this time, that maybe he wasn’t as in control as he thought he was.

When he’d consumed the entire bottle, he clumsily made his way back into the bathroom to relieve himself before returning to his bed, and throwing the jacket to the floor, purposely making sure it landed face up so he didn’t have to see the kill count. He was feeling very sleepy, but like always was not afraid. He was in control as far as he was concerned. The doubts of having gone too far were completely gone. He had already drunk his OJ and would soon fall asleep, then wake up in the morning refreshed. He would change his slipshod bandage and continue with his morning routine, wearing a long-sleeve shirt under his jacket, just in case. If his wrist became too tender, too painful, he would claim he had hit it during the ruckus in Striker just as his dad had been hurt. 

Just as Chuck was beginning to drift off to sleep, there was a knock at his door. He barely heard it but snapped out of his drowsiness long enough to invite the knocker inside. Had he been more conscious he would have either not answered at all, or sent the person away, but in his current state he wasn’t thinking clearly. He simply stared at the door, waiting for someone to come in. It was Raleigh Becket.

“Uh, is this a bad time?” the older pilot asked, immediately noticing the shirtless Australian almost passed out on the bed, with what looked like a recently added bandage on his left arm and an empty bottle on the table. “Maybe I should come back later…”

Raleigh turned to leave, but Chuck objected. “Nah, mate. You can stay. Just tired is all. Rough day, ya know?” He forced a smug smile, closing his eyes a moment.

The American pilot raised an eyebrow. “Right, rough day,” he said, doubting that a ‘rough day’ was all that was wrong. To him, Chuck looked like he had been popping sleeping pills like candy and was just barely holding on to consciousness. If only he knew what had really happened, he might have been happier with the former. 

“I uh, I just came to…make peace. God that sounds so cheesy now that I say it, but you get the idea. I wanna call a truce.”

“Sure thing, mate. You saved my arse today. Can’t rightly hate you now, can I?” Chuck replied with a slight laugh. “I guess I should say thank you.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just want us to be okay with each other. No more anger, no more fighting. We don’t have to be friends, but we should at least have some respect—” Raleigh said, but was interrupted.

Chuck opened his eyes and focused on Raleigh. “Anything you want. I’m tired of it m’self. Tired of all of it, really. Takes too much energy. It’s all just… Eh, I think it’s time I got some rest…” he trailed off. He started to think that perhaps letting the handsome pilot inside wasn’t the best idea. The energy it was taking to even hold a half-hearted conversation just wasn’t there.

Raleigh wondered what Chuck had intended to say but didn’t push it. He had gotten Chuck to agree to a peaceful coexistence so he had completed his mission. Time to go before he overstayed his welcome. “Yeah, you look like you need it. Good night.” He spared one more glance at Chuck’s wrist. “You might wanna get med-lab to check out that injury to your arm. Might be serious.”

“Just a scratch, mate, nothin’ to worry about,” the Australian mumbled.

Raleigh’s eyes roved over the other man, taking in the scene. Shirtless, lying in bed looking like death, an injury to his wrist, sounding almost drunk. He glanced at the empty bottle of orange juice on the table again, bright smudges on the otherwise clear container. There were similar spots on the table itself but he couldn’t tell what it was.

“Chuck… Are you sure you’re alright?”

Chuck waved him off, nodding. “Yeah, g’night mate.”

“Good night. You really should get yourself checked out…”

The words were lost, however, as the younger pilot had already faded away before Raleigh even left the room.

The entire walk back to his own room, Raleigh couldn’t get the image of Chuck out of his mind: the young man, obviously embarrassed about what had transpired earlier in the day when he was so used to being the star, nearly passed out on his bed. 

Raleigh wondered what happened to the pilot’s wrist. Herc had broken his arm so it wasn’t impossible for Chuck to have gotten hurt as well, but there was some nagging feeling in his head that that was not the case. 

It then hit the pilot like a sack of bricks. The bottle on the table, it had fingerprints. They had looked slightly smudged but they had been a bright red color. There was no reason for red smears on a container unless someone had been hurt. The same could be said for the mess on the table. On top of that it also occurred to him that orange juice was great for replenishing blood after loss. His brain began to shove pieces together, causing him to suspect Chuck’s wrist might be hurt a little more than what he was willing to admit to. 

It wasn’t from the jaeger; it was from something else. He had seen Chuck’s drivesuit hanging in the prep room, no damage to the armguards. There was no way he received a bleeding injury to his wrist in that suit. Yes, it was something else entirely and Raleigh resigned himself to find out what. His conscience forbade him to forget about it. Something was wrong, Chuck was hiding it, and something had to be done about it before the man became infected from improper care, or worse.

**

xxxx

**

Chuck woke up with his head aching and his arm throbbing. He glanced over at his wrist to see that some blood had indeed seeped through the bandage. Swearing, he dragged himself out of bed, shaking off the light-headedness. He wrote it off to simply needing some more nourishment.

Once in the bathroom, he slowly peeled away the gauze. His flesh was streaked with red, the tape not having held as well as he had hoped. The wound did seem to have clotted, however, and if he were careful it would heal and scar just like the others. It was purple, as if bruised, and tender to the touch.

He dug out the first aid kit from behind the medicine cabinet. He scolded himself for not thinking about it the night before, but the mental state he had been in could account for that oversight. Inside were proper gauze pads, disinfectant cream, an Ace bandage, butterfly Band-Aids… 

The butterfly Band-Aids were exactly what he should have used. They were designed specifically for keeping cuts closed. Chuck gingerly cleaned the site, rinsing away the streaks of blood. He then applied several of the bandages, covered it with a gauze pad, which he taped in place, and wrapped the Ace bandage around that. That would give it the look of a simple sprain as opposed to what was truly under there. 

Chuck had no orange juice left, so he finished his morning routine, being cautious not to get his new bandages wet during his shower. He pulled on a long-sleeve shirt, slid his bomber jacket over top, popped his hat on his head and stepped out into the hall. 

The lights in the hall seemed brighter than usual. The air felt thicker in his lungs. Assuming it was just his imagination, he made his way down to the canteen to find some breakfast. What he needed was nutrition to revitalize him.

He spotted Raleigh heading to a table, tray in hand. They nodded at each other as Chuck went on to get in line. He didn’t realize it, but Raleigh was watching him. 

There was a sudden pang in Chuck’s head, causing him to bring his hand to his forehead. Not thinking, it was his left hand, which was still sore. He hoped nobody noticed that he made a slight jerking motion at the sudden jolt of pain. What was odd as well was that he felt warm. He shrugged that off too. It was cold outside; the staff must have turned up the heat. 

The Australian placed three bottles of orange juice on his tray, followed by a plate full of eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, and hash browns. The chef who handed him his plate looked at him curiously, not used to someone eating quite that much before heading to the kwoon for a workout, which was the regular routine for all pilots after mess.

The tray was heavy and most of the support was in his right hand. He winced as he used his left to help keep the tray steady. He chose a seat as close as possible, almost dropping the tray of food. He still had not taken notice that Raleigh was watching him with deep intensity. 

Chuck opened one of the bottles of orange juice and quickly chugged it down, ignoring the looks he was receiving from the others around him. He started to gobble down his eggs but then suddenly felt very tired. It was at this point that Raleigh appeared in front of him.

“Hey, rough morning?” the blond inquired, sitting down. 

“Just a bit. Woke up hungry as a coyote though,” Chuck replied. 

“To be so hungry you sure are taking your time with that grub,” Raleigh replied. By this point Chuck had stopped eating and was merely pushing the food around with his fork. “You all right? You seem really out of it.”

Normally, Chuck would have barked out some smart-assed comment, but he didn’t have the energy. Instead he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Just takin’ my time, mate. Wanna savor.” He managed a half-hearted smirk. “Don’t you have practice runs in a few minutes?”

Raleigh shrugged. “Yeah, but it can wait. I think we have more to talk about.”

Chuck looked up and met his gaze. “What’re you talking about there, mate? I thought we called a truce.” He had finally picked up his toast and was chewing away on it, jelly dripping down to the plate.

“We did. But I think we need to talk.”

“About what?” Chuck asked, beginning to get agitated. 

Raleigh nodded toward the other man’s left. “For one, that injury. How’d you get it?”

The redhead hesitated while he conjured his lie. “Hit it in the conn pod, just like m’old man. No big deal.” He shrugged for emphasis as if it were of no concern.

“Funny that your drivesuit was undamaged,” Raleigh replied. Chuck simply stared down at his plate, caught off guard by the comment. “What is it? Laceration?”

Chuck frowned. “Why would you think that? It’s just a sprain.”

“Oh? Last time I checked, sprains don’t bleed, and I see a little spot there,” the blond stated, pointing right at Chuck’s wrist poking out from under his shirt. “Yep, right there.”

“That’s just some jelly. I’m a messy eater.”

Raleigh raised an eyebrow. “You’re eating grape jelly. That spot is red. Now what kind of injury do you really have?”

Chuck glared at him harshly. “Let. It. Go,” he said sternly.

“No, I won’t. Believe it or not, I do give a shit if you’re okay,” the blond replied just as firmly. “Now come clean, Hansen. What’s that injury and how did you get it?”

Tired of being badgered and all but called a liar, Chuck stood up quickly, ready to leave. His food would just have to come later.

“Look here, mate, I don’t need—” Before Chuck could finish his statement, he felt his entire body go weak. A cold sweat settled over him. He awkwardly sat back down, holding his head with one hand, steadying himself with the other. 

Raleigh rounded the table and sat down next to the other man, his hand on Chuck’s back. “You don’t need help, is that what you were going to say?”

Chuck cut his eyes at Raleigh, but he was feeling too weak to make any further of a scene. 

“Drink some more juice, eat a little more,” the blond instructed. 

The redhead was breathing shallowly, his entire body feeling heavy. “I’m too… I’m too tired…” he complained. “Just wanna lay down.”

“In a minute. First you have to drink some more OJ and at least finish some of your breakfast. It’ll make you feel a little better, I swear.” Raleigh pushed the plate closer to his comrade, nodding. “Go on, people are starting to stare. I know you don’t want anyone in your business, so don’t give them a reason to be.”

Chuck lowered his eyes to his plate and sat up a little more. He hated to admit the other ranger was right, but he needed to at least eat a little bit to get the crowd to stop looking at him so closely. He poked around his plate, picking up some of the eggs and slowly putting them in his mouth. He popped the lid off of one of the containers of orange juice and took a big gulp.

“I’m so sleepy, mate. I just wanna go back to m’room and lay down,” Chuck insisted.

“Alright, fine. But I’m walking you there. You look like you might collapse any second,” Raleigh replied. He stuck the remaining juice bottles in his pockets, feeling the cold on his thighs. “Just take your time.”

Chuck slowly rose from his seat, already feeling his head lightening. “Fuck…” he said under his breath. His eyes were starting to get tired, wanting only to close. “I can’t…”

Raleigh sighed. There was no getting around it. People would talk. Wonder what was wrong with Chuck Hansen, why he was limping around like a zombie. Shrugging, he stood up next to the other man and pulled Chuck’s arm around his neck, relieving some of the weight. Slowly they made for the door, people turning to look. 

“It’s just exhaustion, people, nothing to see here,” Raleigh said firmly as they passed a table full of gawkers. “Go on, mind your business.” Several of the employees continued to stare. “I said mind your business!” he barked harshly. Unused to Raleigh Becket being so bold, people slowly returned to their meals, bewildered as to his change of attitude and even more so why Chuck Hansen was out of sorts.

Chuck felt himself leaning on Raleigh as they made it down the hallway, felt his weight seem to increase, his head float, and then things just went black.

When Chuck awoke, he was in his own bed. The room was dim except for a focused light over his arm, where Raleigh was carefully putting the final stitch into the wound on Chuck’s wrist.

Chuck groaned, his senses coming back to him. There was a dull sting on one arm, where he saw an IV tube going in, the bag hanging off a fixture in the wall. The other arm was where Raleigh was finishing the stitches, the man dabbing at the site with cotton swabs.

“I see you’re awake,” the blond ranger stated, not taking his eyes off of his task. “I’d hoped you would stay asleep during the whole thing, but at least I’m almost done. Try not to move too much.”

“Wha… What are you doing? What’s going on?”

Raleigh gave a half-smile. “I’m taking care of you, since you don’t want to take care of yourself. Don’t yank that IV out, either. It’s giving you fluids to speed up your blood restoration.”

“How do you know how to do this? How come you didn’t get a medic? And where the fuck did you get an IV bag from?”

This time Raleigh’s mouth came up into a full smile. “I learned this from Yancy. We stitched each other up a few times over the years. And I didn’t call a medic because I knew you would freak out if I did. And don’t you worry about how I snuck the bag out of the supply room.”

Chuck looked away from the other man. “What makes you say I’d freak out?”

Raleigh couldn’t suppress a snicker. “Chuck Hansen would hate for anyone to see him vulnerable. And he doesn’t want anyone to know what’s going on, either. I’ve seen how you operate. If I got a medic in here, you’d shut down and become completely defensive. It’d be completely counterproductive.”

“What are you talking about, mate?”

“I mean the conversation we’re going to have in a minute. I think you’re more likely to be honest with me, one-on-one, instead of with an audience. Plus you don’t want word getting around, either.”

“Word about what?”

Raleigh shook his head, reaching for the gauze on the table. “Stop. Just stop. I know what’s going on. I put the pieces together. That cut, it didn’t come from the conn pod, or any other piece of the jaeger.”

Chuck was about to protest but Raleigh gave him a grave stare. “Don’t lie to me, Hansen. Just come clean.”

“Fine! God dammit, fine!” Chuck hissed. “I cut m’own arm, so what? I’m a grown man, I can do what I want!”

“It’s not about being a man. It’s about your health. And your safety. I just cleaned and stitched that cut. Do you realize if it had gotten infected you could’a died?”

Chuck lowered his eyes like a scolded child. The other ranger had a valid point. If anything that made it harder to accept.

“How’d you… figure it all out, mate?”

Raleigh sighed. “I saw red fingerprints on the bottle in your room. Your extreme insistence that it was nothing but a sprain but then seeing blood staining the bandage. The fact you were paler than a ghost, had sweat pouring down your face like you were in an inferno, and your sudden obsession with orange juice.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“When I was a kid, I had a friend who cut herself. She was depressed. She showed up wearing long sleeves everywhere, even in the hottest summer days. She always seemed tired. She never let anyone touch her arms. The only thing she ever drank was orange juice. Always looked pale. And her face was constantly… empty. You could see some sort of pain in her eyes, but that was it,” the blond explained.

“What happened to her?” Chuck asked, wishing the other man would just drop the entire thing and go away.

Raleigh took a deep breath before answering. “She died. She cut a little too far, and the blood wouldn’t stop. I found her at home when I came over wanting to go to a movie with her. I called the ambulance and we made it to the emergency room, but I basically had to watch my friend bleed out on the stretcher while she waited for a doctor.”

“I’m sorry. Was she your girlfriend?”

“No. Not yet anyway,” Raleigh half-smiled. “I wanted her to be though. The point is, I’d kind of like to not see you die like she did. There’s enough death in the world without creating more on purpose.”

Chuck snorted. “You said that girl was depressed. I’m not depressed. I know what I’m doing. It’s not all that sadness bullshit.”

“No, of course not. If you wanted to die you would have done it long ago, probably in a jaeger so it didn’t look like you had given up. No, you don’t want to die. But if you don’t want to die, then why? Why are you doing this, Chuck? That’s what I can’t figure out.”

The redhead looked away from the other ranger, staring at the wall. He didn’t want to look at Raleigh. The man might see right through him, right into his eyes and see the answer. It wasn’t any of his business.

After several seconds of silence, Raleigh stood up. “Well, maybe you’ll tell your dad. He’s probably in Pentecost’s office or something. I’m sure I could find him. I’ll be right back.” He began to make for the door when Chuck yelled for him.

“No! Don’t say anything to him!” Chuck demanded. “It’s none of his business goddammit!”

Raleigh smiled to himself before turning around to face the other man. “Well if you don’t want me to get your dad, then answer me. If you don’t, I’ll go get him and before you know it, he’ll have a medic in here and then word will spread and everyone will know Chuck Hansen has some sort of problem.”

“You bastard,” Chuck growled. “Why the fuck are you doing this to me?”

“Because I care. You may be a dick sometimes, but you’re a fellow ranger. We should be watching out for each other, don’t you think?” Raleigh replied, not really expecting an answer. “How about you drink some more OJ and get your head on and then we talk.”

“Fine, you American fuck. But if this is your idea of a truce you got some fucked up ways of making peace,” Chuck hurled back.

The blond didn’t reply, instead he uncapped one of the bottles of OJ that he had brought back with them from the canteen and handed it to the unwilling patient. Chuck snatched it from him with his right arm and chugged it like a beer.

“You ready to spill, Hansen?”

Chuck glared at him, choosing only to play his game because he feared not only his father finding out but even worse—everyone else in the Dome.

“I’ve been doing it off and on since I was a sprog. No big deal. Sometimes a mistake is too big to just shrug off, ya know?” Chuck said quietly. “Just a way of reminding me when I fucked up, so it won’t happen again.”

Raleigh scratched his head, thinking. “So… you do it as kind of a reminder… Like a battle scar reminds people of…” He trailed off, placing his palm against his left pectoral, feeling the very slightly raised electrical scars that had been there for five years. He swallowed to keep from tearing up as he contemplated Chuck’s concept. 

“See, you got them scars, you know what I mean, don’t ya Becket?”

The American hesitated. Was it the same? “No. No, this isn’t the same. I didn’t choose these scars. I don’t want to remember the day I got them. You chose yours. I don’t think it’s as simple as you make it sound.”

Chuck rolled his eyes. “What are you getting at? I told you, it reminds me of when I fucked up.”

“Like a punishment. You’re punishing yourself for your failure,” Raleigh said softly. “You don’t want to hurt yourself. You need to hurt yourself.”

The redhead looked away and closed his eyes. Raleigh had figured him out. It truly was all about punishment, but it wasn’t that he wanted it. He needed it. The way a small child needed to be spanked for being bad, Chuck needed his own form of punishment. Something he could control, but something that would get his attention, something that would reinforce the fact he had fucked up.

There was a long, awkward silence between them. Chuck continued to keep his eyes closed, almost hoping Raleigh would assume he fell asleep and leave. The other man had moved to the edge of the bed and was sitting there, his face blank.

Finally, Raleigh broke the silence. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” He looked over and saw Chuck feigning sleep. “I know you’re awake so give it up. You need to hear me out.”

Chuck sighed, opening his eyes and looking at the other ranger. “Alright then, get to it.”

“You don’t have to do this. Cutting yourself. Punishing yourself. Don’t you think the sadness you feel, the disappointment, isn’t that enough of a punishment? Why do this too? It doesn’t help anything. It doesn’t fix the problem. It makes it worse.”

Raleigh turned around and faced his comrade, their eyes meeting. “There’s better ways to deal, Chuck. But this… this isn’t the way. This is gonna kill you someday. Look how close you were this time.”

“So then what do you propose I do then, hm? Let daddy take me over his knee? Stand in the corner? Write lines?”

“No, smartass. Your desire for punishment, your need for it, it all comes from being angry with yourself. You’re pissed because something didn’t go right and you don’t have anywhere to let it out.”

“No shit, genius.”

Raleigh rolled his eyes. “Stop being a dick for five minutes and think. You’re angry, what do you wanna do? Yell? Scream? Hit something?... Cry? All of the above?”

“I wanna hurt something. I want to hurt.”

Raleigh sighed. “Then get a fucking punching bag! Do extra trials in the Kwoon! But for God’s sake stop this,” he blurted out. “Sorry. I lost my temper. Chuck, this is gonna take more than I know how to deal with. I want to help you, but I can’t do it on my own.”

Chuck sat up on his elbows, his face becoming a mask of agitation and fear. “Who are you gonna tell? You can’t tell anyone! Ever!” he bellowed. 

“Chuck, you need help. But I don’t know how. But I know someone who does. You just have to agree to meet him,” Raleigh answered. 

“Meet who?”

The blond took a deep breath, knowing this was the point where Chuck would either take his hand, or leap off the bridge so to speak. “A friend. A friend who specializes in talking to people.”

“You mean a shrink! Some sort of crazy-person doctor! I’m not crazy, mate, I don’t need one of those!” Chuck argued. 

“You’re not crazy, and he isn’t a crazy-people doctor. He’s a therapist. He listens to people. Helps them. I think… I think you should talk to him.”

Chuck’s eyes narrowed. “About what? That I’m angry, that I’m hurt? That I’m fucked up because my mum died and my old man’s a distant—“

Raleigh interrupted him, refusing to listen further. “You talk to him about whatever you want!” he said, raising his voice over the hysterical Australian’s. “You just sit and talk and he listens and can’t tell anybody. Whatever you talk about is confidential.”

“How can I know that?”

“You just have to trust him. His license depends on his discretion, so he has everything to lose if he breaks your confidentiality.”

Silence filled the room for the first time since the conversation began. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, but the longer they sat in stillness, the more it began to dissipate.

“So… tell me about him then. Tell me about this friend of yours,” Chuck finally said, looking down at the covers. 

Raleigh swallowed back a triumphant grin. “His name’s Troy. He’s a couple years older than me. He’s worked with rangers before, and soldiers with PTSD. He can help you.” He waited for several seconds before going on. “He helped me.”

“You?” Chuck replied, surprised. “He helped you?”

“Yeah. After Yancy died. Off and on I talked to him. If it wasn’t for Troy, I might have grieved myself to death.” Raleigh sighed. “You’re the only person I’ve ever told that to except for him.”

Chuck looked thoughtful. “Fine. I’ll see your friend. But I don’t wanna call him a therapist, or a doctor, or any of those other things. They all sound so mental.”

Raleigh couldn’t help but laugh. “He isn’t a big fan of those terms either. Just consider him your new friend. Your new ‘bro’ like they used to say back in the twenty-tens.”

“Don’t ever say ‘bro’ again. You sound like a dick,” Chuck snorted. “So mate, get me in touch with this guy and let’s see what kind of friends we can be.”

“Sure thing,” Raleigh replied. He pulled his phone from his pocket, swiping the screen a few times until it began to ring. As he began to tell Troy about Chuck, Raleigh let his hand crawl over to Chuck’s, taking hold and giving a gentle squeeze. 

Chuck squeezed back. It was the first time he had ever felt any form of friendly affection from a man, or anyone really. Jaeger-flies annoyed him so he avoided them. His father was always absent. Anyone else he dealt with regularly was more like a passing friend. Finally he had found a true friend.

Raleigh finished with his phone call. “Troy agreed to see you tomorrow morning.” He smiled, letting go of Chuck’s hand and stood up. “You know, I think we could use some entertainment. I’m gonna run to my quarters real fast and grab one of my video games.”

“You got a Playstation X, mate?”

“Of course I do. I worked on The Wall; I didn’t live in a cave the whole time. I’ll be right back.” Raleigh made for the door but paused and looked back. “By the way, Troy said new friends bring coffee when they hang out. Might wanna work on that.”

Chuck nodded and watched the other man leave. He had little faith in this entire idea, but logically it could hurt nothing. As long as Troy was bound to silence, there was nothing to lose. 

Chuck began to laugh. Raleigh’s outburst regarding the punching bag suddenly popped back into his head. “I guess I could give that a go,” he muttered to himself.

**Six Months Later**

Chuck sat at the plain metal desk in his room, a laptop in front of him. He used his right hand to operate the machine, his left arm limp beside him. Just as he was pulling up the latest news report about the cure for Kaiju-blue, he felt wetness on his left fingertips. 

“Hey there, handsome,” he said, looking down at Max, who was licking Chuck’s hand. The rough tongue slathered all over the ranger’s skin, finally lapping around to his wrist. Chuck felt the dog’s tongue rubbing against the scar that still stood out against his pale skin. The cut had healed relatively quickly, but the scar would remain possibly forever. That was okay, however, since it was the last one he ever gave himself, a reminder of a person he had no intention of becoming again. 

“I guess I better get m’arse to bed, eh mate? Meeting up with Troy in the morning.” He half smiled at the dog, who gave him a solemn look. “Don’t be jealous, boy. He’s my buddy, but you’re my best friend.” He leaned down and ruffled the dog’s wrinkly face and kissed him on the forehead. 

The next day’s meeting with Troy was a special occasion. It marked exactly six months since their first meeting, and Troy was so impressed with the progress Chuck had made that he was treating the redhead to breakfast and a day at the amusement park. Raleigh had teased them about it being a date, but after a prompt “Fuck you, mate,” from Chuck, Raleigh gave up on the chiding. 

Chuck pulled off his t-shirt and tossed it aside, the fabric sliding down the side of the punching bag hanging from the ceiling. It had been brand new when Chuck purchased it, but now it looked like it was ten years through the ringer. Troy called it therapy. 

Dressed only in his boxers, Chuck slid beneath the sheets, reaching over to click off the lamp. Max jumped up on the bed and almost immediately fell asleep on his feet. Chuck fell asleep not much longer after that and dreamt about jaegers and kaiju and roller coasters.


End file.
